


The Path Not Taken

by kronette



Category: Brimstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It sounded wrong to him now: 'Pleasure in killing'. It was something sick, twisted criminals did, not something a cop would do. But a cop did do it. He did it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted March, 2000 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright.

Ezekiel. His mother thought it a good, Christian name. To her, names set the course for your life. She had started him off on the path of righteousness, and he had messed it up. 

Fucked it up big-time. 

He had broken one of the Ten Commandments: Thou Shalt Not Kill. Talking with any number of religious persons, from ministers and rabbis to priests and preachers, he knew that was not the only reason he was sent to Hell. People broke Commandments all the time, but not all of them ended up in Hell. Some repented their sins. Ezekiel didn't see the need to. He killed his wife's rapist. He made sure Gilbert Jax couldn't hurt anyone, ever again. Why would he need to repent for ridding the earth of scum like Jax? The man did evil things and didn't regret them, so why should it matter if _he_ did? He felt justified. He felt justice had been served. And he had the tiniest bit of satisfaction watching the light die in Jax's eyes. It felt _good_ to kill Jax. Righteous, somehow. Zeke had played God -- and lost. He was Judged and damned to Hell. 

After fifteen years in Hell, he was sent back to earth to round up over a hundred escaped souls. A 'second chance at life', as the Devil put it. In the years that followed, he'd been in hundreds of churches, trying to find answers. What he didn't realize was he was asking the wrong questions. He never thought that killing Jax was wrong. When he held the necklace of wedding rings in his hand after sending Jax back to Hell for a second time, he started to understand. The flash of satisfaction as he hit Jax's eyes was coupled with guilt. He shouldn't have taken pleasure in killing Jax. He shouldn't have judged him in the first place. Whether Jax lived or died wasn't Ezekiel's place to decide. He wasn't God. 

It sounded wrong to him now: 'Pleasure in killing'. It was something sick, twisted criminals did, not something a cop would do. But a cop _did_ do it. _He_ did it. And that was his sin that sent him to Hell. It was hard to regret killing Jax. It was hard to let go of that sense of righteousness. It was even harder to keep up the feeling that you were _Good_ and _Just_ and _Right_ when you had the Devil grinning at you, taunting you for over twenty-five years about your supposed "goodness". In his own way, the Devil had helped him come to his acceptance. 

It had been easier to forgive himself for not being there the night Roz was raped. For not being there most nights. For putting his job above his family. The last had hurt the most. Roz should hate him for not being there and allowing Jax to rape her. He didn't sense hate from her, though. As much as he hated and blamed himself for what had happened, Roz didn't blame him. She rightly put the blame where it belonged; on Jax. It was not something Ezekiel could change. Nothing could undo what had been done, but he was too pig-headed to listen to reason. Same in death as in life. 

He still loved her; that hadn't changed either. But it wasn't the same as when he first came back to earth. It wasn't that aching loneliness and want. Now it was more a bittersweet remembrance of the life he had, the love he and Roz shared. The ugly memories were overlaid with good ones. Happiness and joy remembered instead of anguish and hate. But it was all faded, like an old picture. Dulled, somehow. 

Which is how he found himself twenty-odd years later, sitting in a church, contemplating his next move. It seemed all his feelings and emotions had mellowed in the last ten years. He was truly alone in this world. He had let a lot of things go since his return. He had finally given up eating. It had been great to taste a Reggie bar again, but it was all luxury. Everything he did outside of sending souls back to Hell was superfluous. He had learned to live without them. The money he found in his pocket every morning, he donated to the first Christian church he happened across that day. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. He didn't need much sleep anymore, either. What few naps he did take, he took on subways, shelters, or even the streets. He'd cut off ties to everyone he had contact with since his return; Max, Father Horn, the few detectives he'd met. He had even given up Roz. He'd been tempted not to. Oh, God, how he'd been tempted that first Valentine's day after he returned to earth. To touch Roz; to feel her after so many years apart. He almost couldn't let her go. But in the end, he had. For her sake. The Devil had been right about one thing, though he had thought it a form of torture at the time: Ezekiel couldn't just walk up to Roz and expect a happily ever after. She had a life to live. He had nothing to offer her. So he had walked away twenty-three years ago and hadn't looked back. He'd come to a quiet acceptance of his life and death. Maybe because he knew his time on earth was coming to an end. 

He didn't feel the panic that he used to at that thought. The first time he had been hit in the eye, he was scared out of his wits. He was afraid of dying again; of not being where he could see Roz. Now, he had lost count of how many near-trips to Hell he'd taken. His fear of being sent back had diminished over the years, to the point where he felt nothing. How he could feel nothing and yet still care, he didn't know. It seemed utterly clichéd to say 'the Devil made him do it', but it was true. Whenever the Devil was around, Ezekiel shut off his feelings. Feelings brought pain, pain brought hate, and the Devil thrived on both. He had grown accustomed to the Devil's taunts. Constant barraging of images, sounds and memories tend to desensitize the barrage. Each dig the Devil made, Ezekiel went more into himself, until he felt nothing at all. He had a job to do, and he did it. No excess emotion. No excess anything. 

He discovered and honed his few skills that fifteen years in Hell had given him. He could go undetected by someone until he was right in front of them, then hit their eyes. He was quicker than most, moving at a superhuman speed. He put the ability to "transport" himself from one place to another to good use. No longer did it take him days to get from Seattle to Shreveport. In a matter of seconds, he could be around the world and back again. The souls had nowhere to hide from him, save one. 

Ashur Badaktu. Ash. Sacrificed her daughter Seri to her gods; Judged and condemned by a God she did not believe in. He had felt something for her once. An almost-knowing that he attributed to their mutual landlord in the Underworld. Kindred souls found each other, eventually. Kindred souls called to each other. He had been calling Ash for a year. 

She was the last soul he had to send back. She had destroyed an untold number of places of worship in her twenty-eight years of walking the earth. No telling how many people she had killed in the name of her gods. It was time for her to return home and give the Devil his due. One hundred and twelve souls returned to Hell. His job was almost done. 

He raised his eyes to the crucifix, offering up a prayer that this would end quickly. He didn't want to see any more mortals die at this creature's hand. He didn't want to see any more places of worship burned to the ground. He didn't want to see any more of the atrocities that mankind could inflict upon itself. He wanted his pseudo-life on earth to end. He knew he didn't belong here. He was a man out of place and time. He was close to 70 years old, but didn't look a day over 35. He was a relic to another age, and he was bone tired. He was ready to go home. 

"I will gladly send you there," whispered throughout the church. Ash had arrived. 

He calmed his mind, flexed his grip on his trusty .9mm, and focused. There, in the shadows by the altar. A flash of steel. Ash's sacrificial knife. 

Her powers were stronger than his; more powerful than any other escaped soul. They had met up two dozen times over the years, neither managing to send the other back to Hell. Always "almost". Not today. Today she went back where she belonged. 

Her voice was pure venom. "You took my companions away. All of them. They were to be my army against your god. You have spoiled my plans for the last time." 

He wasted no time in speaking; it only sapped his strength and threw off his concentration. He needed every advantage with her. He caught a flash of movement to his left, which was the only warning he received as the blade raked across his forearm, splitting his coat sleeve and skin wide open. Reflexively, he raised the gun and fired, hitting her twice before she vanished to the shadows again. The cut was bleeding heavily, staining his clothes. 

"Your god is a loving god," she taunted him, staying elusively in the shadows. He couldn't sense her movements fast enough. "Your god is a righteous god. Your god is a merciful god." Her voice rose in volume, but he couldn't pinpoint where she was. "What mercy did he show me? I don't even believe in him!" 

The knife cut deeper than the words, jamming into his upper back. Despite his best efforts, she was winning. He had a job to do, and by God, he was going to do it. He lashed out with his fist, having gotten a ring specially made to deal with the Devil's wandering children long ago. Sharp prongs that used to hold a large stone now jutted upwards, ready to open the windows to the soul. He caught Ash in her left eye, sending her into a rage. It barely slowed her down, but it gave him breathing room. He stumbled up the short steps behind him, trying to anticipate her next move. 

The knife jabbed deep into the back of his leg, severing his tendons as her voice hissed in his ear, "Your god is a vengeful god." He fell to his knees as his blood stained the altar. His ragged gasps of agony seemed loud in the stillness of the church. Another sweep of the blade cut across his face, cheek, eye and forehead. He howled, clasping his good hand to his eye. He rolled back and forth on the floor, willing himself to ignore the pain. The familiar tug of Hell filled him, trying to pull him back down. He couldn't go; not yet. Not unless Ash went with him. 

His arm was yanked away from his face and a line of fire cut from wrist to elbow. She may as well have just taken a razor and shaved his skin off. He was incapable of making a sound; the searing pain was so intense. Both his arms were slammed to the floor near his head, then Ash rested her knees on his elbows. She sat on his chest, the knife reflected in her flame-filled eyes. 

Through the throbbing, searing pain, he heard her voice. "I am the darkness and the light. I am life." She dragged the knife across his neck, leaving a thin trail of blood. "I am vengeance. I am death. Your death." He attempted to protest as she raised the knife. 

"Ashur Badaktu!" a new voice called out. 

Her attention was drawn behind her. "You dared to try to hold me. No one can contain me. I am the Priestess of Ashurak. The Serpent Queen of the Temple of Atier..." 

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it for millennia. It's gotten old." The Devil stepped out of the shadow and into the light. "You belong to me." 

"I belong to no one!"

As they fought, Ezekiel tried to move his arms, but Ash possessed superior strength, especially when she was enraged. And right now, she was the maddest he'd ever seen. 

"You were sent to me by God. That means you are mine," the Devil explained carefully, with no smile on his face. 

"He is not my god. I curse your god!" Her attention was so focused on the Devil that she didn't feel Ezekiel moving underneath her. He bent his arm as far as he could to reach inside his coat. His fingertips grazed the slim knife he kept in his inner pocket. 

"He is everyone's God. And you'd do best to come quietly with me now." The Devil held out his hand. 

"No! You will not take me back." 

The Devil smiled. "You're right. I won't." His glance slid from her face to a spot behind her and his smile widened. 

She turned around and glared down at Ezekiel. "This pitiful excuse of man? You think he will stop me?" She laughed darkly and plunged the knife down. Ezekiel moved his head and the knife stuck in the floor, less than an eighth of an inch from his eye. At the same instant, he shoved her off of him and raked his knife across her eyes. 

Her wild shrieks seemed to call Hell itself. Light brighter than lightning flashed through the church, centered on her eyes. In a horrible canopy of light and sound, she returned to Hell. Her echoing screams died off slowly. 

Ezekiel flopped back on the floor, too exhausted to move. She had damaged him badly; his blood soaked the carpet of the altar. He _felt_ like a sacrifice. 

"Well, Ezekiel." The Devil's voice sounded different. Deeper, somehow. He opened his eyes and saw the Devil standing over him. "It looks like you've finally fulfilled your part of the bargain." 

He was working up the strength to respond when the last tattoo was removed from his body. He hissed as Ash's name was burned from his flesh. He rubbed the spot, surprised to see a small mark still there. He looked up at the Devil, who had an ingratiating, enigmatic smile plastered on his face. "What's this?" he rasped. 

The Devil slightly tugged his pants before he crouched down to his level. "Why, Ezekiel, I would have thought you smarter than that. It is my mark. A mark of ownership." 

"Why didn't I notice it before?" 

The Devil merely shrugged. "It was there all along." 

He just glared at the Devil. 

"Oh, all right. I never was a very good liar when it came to you. I had it burned on while Ash's name was burning off of you. Satisfied?" 

"I'm never satisfied," he rasped as he pulled himself to a sitting position. Every bone in his pseudo body ached, but the cuts were healing now that Ash was returned to Hell. 

"That's why I picked you, Ezekiel. I knew you wouldn't quit until the job was done." 

They were the same sarcastic words he had heard countless times before, but there was a lackluster tone to them. Like the Devil's...well...heart wasn't in it. 

"And now that it is done, it's time to pay the Devil his due," Ezekiel quipped. He rolled over and retrieved his gun. With an ironic smile, he twirled it on his finger. "Guess I won't be needing this anymore." 

"Whyever not, Ezekiel?" 

The Devil seemed to linger over his name more so than before. It was disturbing and set his senses on alert. 

"Not much use for it in Hell, is there? I mean, bullets hurt, but what's the point?" He had a suspicious thought. "There were only 113 escaped souls, weren't there? I don't have 'just one more' hiding out there for me to catch?" He pinched his fingers together to indicate a small amount, imitating the 'one more'. 

The Devil laughed, and it was more like his old sound. "I know my promises don't mean anything to you, but I promise, Ash was the last one." 

Zeke looked around the church; nothing had changed. He shrugged. "So...what happens now? Do I just become mortal again or what? Or is it time to renege on that part of the deal?" 

"What do you take me for, Ezekiel? A man who goes back on his word?" 

"You're the Devil," Ezekiel stated as if that explained everything. 

"True. But in this case, you'd also be right." He smiled brightly. "It's time to go home, Ezekiel." 

Something in the Devil's voice caught his attention. "What did you say?" 

The Devil couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I said it's time to go home." 

"Why not 'come back to my warm embrace'? Or, 'Return to my hellish fold'?" There was a flutter of something deep in his chest. A feeling. An awakening. He dared not put a name to it, for fear of it evaporating. His heart began to pound with anticipation. 

The Devil kept silent. He reached out his hand, but didn't touch Ezekiel. He mimicked stroking Ezekiel's face, almost lovingly. Then he laid his hand flat against Ezekiel's chest, the heart of his palm over the Devil's mark. Ezekiel cried out in agony as the Devil's flesh touched his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and he felt sick to his stomach. Wave after wave of intense pain flooded his body, until all he saw/felt was pure, bright white light. 

"Welcome home, Ezekiel." 

The End


End file.
